There were several dozen of them, women in long skirts with long hair, men in bell-bottom jeans and tie-dyed shirts. There were also a fair number of incredibly normal-looking people mixed in with them, but even the ones wearing slacks and button-down shirts looked too damned cheerful to fit into my idea of natural behavior. They were mingling, laughing, chatting, waving their hands passionately as they disagreed without venom. They stood together in groups or pairs, no one alone at a single glance, though a second look showed me individuals sitting or standing in meditation, apparently consumed with personal joy that required no sharing.

Even without the sight triggered I could practically see their auras, glowing with good-naturedness and excitement. The air tingled with it, as if people were doing—

I brushed my hand over my eyes, knowing when I lowered it, I would see in two worlds. As if people were doing magic, Joanne. I finished the thought forcibly, and dropped my hand.

Right at the foot of the falls, there was a group weaving power together, a delicate construction that took form before my eyes. I could see where it was going, and it was going to be beautiful: an arch that would rise over the edge of the fallen lake, fifteen or twenty feet into the air, made of starlight and sunlight. Glimmers of a thunderbird were already in place at its apex, like a sign of welcome to anyone with eyes to see it.

And it was clear nearly everyone here had those eyes. Power, far more than the eleven coven members had shared, was palpable here. It strengthened auras and built on itself, like static charges from winter-dry wool. The earth itself announced its presence, torn and battered as it was: magic had been done here, and had left its mark. These pleasant, joyful people had been drawn here by power I’d laid down. By mistakes I’d made. And they were glad of it, the whole area having the sense of a giant coming-out party. They weren’t pretending or hoping or hiding, for the most part. They were there to share themselves, their experience, their lives that they’d tried to live quietly, for fear people like me would stare and call them crazy.

These were my people.

I sat down on the boardwalk and put my face in my hands, less to hide the activity from my gaze than to wrap my mind around that appalling idea. These were my people. The men and women who’d gathered here, at the site of my battle with an ancient, deadly serpent, were the ones who would believe in me and in what I could do without fail and without hesitation. They would accept me as one of their own, and very probably revere me if they figured out I was the one who’d shared skin with the thunderbird. The idea was horrifying.

“Joanne?”

I knew the woman’s voice and wasn’t entirely surprised to hear it here. It still took a few moments to lift my head and look up to find Marcia Williams standing before me. She was in her fifties, the lines of wisdom around her mouth now more deeply etched with sorrow. She’d held the position of the Crone in the coven I’d been a part of for a few days. Her power, genuine and pale in its colors, washed around her as she offered a sad smile and took a seat beside me on the boardwalk. “I wondered if you’d come here,” she said. “I wondered if it would draw you back.”

“How is everyone?”

“Thomas is here. The others—” Marcia spread her hands in a shrug. “They may never come back,” she admitted. “I’ve thought about staying away myself.”

“But you’re here.” It was a question, and Marcia heard it as one, spreading her hands again.

“My life has been dedicated to the Goddess, Joanne. We made…terrible mistakes, but I believe She can and will and does, forgive us. I can’t walk away from my faith out of fear, not now. Maybe especially not now.” She was silent a moment, then said, “You’re also here.”

“You noticed that, huh? Look at them.” I nodded at the gathered magic-users, knowing I was avoiding Marcia’s own implied question. “I don’t know what to make of them. A lot of power and arrogance, used blindly, made the falls and a mess of the land here, and they’ve found it and they’re just so damned happy. I don’t know what to make of it.”

Marcia cupped her hands together, wrapping her fingers in the opposite palms to make a kind of yin-yang. “Nature prefers balance, Joanne. If our arrogance created this place, then maybe it’s meant to be used as a place of healing and joy. It becomes the balance.”

“Our.” I looked up at her, absurdly grateful for that.

“We’re rarely alone, Joanne. Even in our worst moments, we’re rarely alone.” She touched my shoulder, gave me a sad smile and walked away to join the throng of people.

Leaving me alone.

I didn’t know how much time had passed when I got up again. The sun still colored the horizon, but sunset came late in Seattle in July. My second sight stayed on, astounding neons and shimmering enthusiasm of growing things helped me breathe a little easier. One of the things I didn’t like to admit was how much I loved the crazy, vivid world I saw through the second sight. It made me feel as though I’d been wearing blinders all my life, and when I lost control of the sight and the blinders came back on, it was like I’d lost something important. I was grateful for its cooperation right now, even if I hadn’t really intended to call it up. Driving with it on turned out to be a lot easier than driving with my vision inversed.

It was after eight by the time I got to the precinct building. The parking lot was worryingly empty, and the garage, when I skulked down in hopes of finding comfort there, was worse. I’d never seen it so quiet, its usual din replaced by the noise of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. They were loud enough to give me a headache, and I wondered how I’d never noticed them before. I sat down on the bottom step leading into the garage and stared at the echoing room. Even its sense of purpose seemed faded without any of the mechanics there. I’d felt the garage’s force before, an animation of color that wasn’t exactly sentient, but knew it existed and why. Seeing it drained so badly made me feel even more alienated from myself than I already did.

“Depressing, isn’t it?”

I turned my head, only unsurprised because I didn’t seem to be able to feel any particular emotion. Thor came down the steps and sat down beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. “It’s not quite as bad upstairs. Not good, but not this empty. I’m the only one left down here.”

“You’re the only one who wasn’t in my dream.” My voice was dull. “What’re you still doing here?”

“You said that earlier, about the dream. What’re you talking about?” He shrugged a little. “I don’t know. There were a lot of cars to work on today, even with so many people out. I guess I just wanted to try to keep up. Stupid, huh?”

“No. It’s something to do. So you don’t feel so helpless.” I knew exactly what that felt like, but I hadn’t yet pulled the rabbit out of my hat. I was still useless. “Thank you.” The words came out abruptly and I shifted my shoulders, feeling my shirt brush against Thor’s again, cotton grabbing. “For helping me in March when my eardrums exploded. I never said thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I think you paid me back.” He leaned back to slide a hand into his pocket—he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt instead of the mechanic’s uniform the department issued—and came out with the piece of topaz. I glanced at it, glowing warm in his hand, then at him, getting an eyeful of aura that brought a faint smile to my lips.

“You really are a thunder god.” He was all stormy grays and deep blues, shot by streaks of bright silver, like lightning. Some of the turmoil that darkened his colors was from the absence of our coworkers. His coworkers, I had to remind myself. I didn’t belong down in the garage anymore. I didn’t have enough in me to find the thought as miserable as I once would’ve, and tried focusing on Thor’s colors again to take my mind off that and everything else. I imagined there’d normally be less stress discoloring the colors, but even so, they suited the nickname I’d given him to a wonderful degree.